Random Blades
by GreyAmberE
Summary: It was hellish. Hot, grand, breathtaking, demanding every space to explode in like a supernova, much brighter much better than Afghanistan's burning sun. It is a fiction about why Sherlock tried to quit smoking at the beginning of THOB.
1. Chapter 1

It was hellish. Hot, grand, breathtaking, demanding every space to explode in like a supernova, much brighter much better thanAfghanistan's burning sun.

It is a fiction about why Sherlock tried to quit smoking at the beginning of The Hounds of Baskerville, and why he was so sad at the end.

Slightly AU, since not every thought here fits into John's official blog. But again, people don't always write what they are really thinking, let alone to say that they know what they are really thinking.

Lestrade and his beloved Astronomy was the setting in Nor the Years Condemn, brilliant work. I sobbed at that Pale Blue Dot part.

Ruefully not beta-ed. If someone interested in this hard work, please please contact me ;)

**Puppets in Games**

Red dots disappeared in the thin air, so did Moriarty in his Westwood, only the ring tone still echoing in Sherlock's ear, _Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive_.

Who has just called in? How is the timing calculated? Are those bombs real?

Oddly, his brain didn't engage too much in these. A tick in it reminded Sherlock his own lie earlier, and his mind worked up now all its energy to face John's coming disappointment.

In his disgust Sherlock found that his stomach twisted, too.

_Disadvantage of a human body._

"You do remember, last time you ran away alone after a serial killer, you almost got yourself killed?"

_Ah. Here it comes._ Sherlock took a deep breath, kept his voice flat, as flat as he could manage, "You wouldn't approve if I asked first."

"Of course I won't! Christ, Sherlock! There is a psychopath and his snipers! What could you do with a gun and a memory stick? What were you thinking!"

_That he would come alone like I did. That he would like to play and play fair._

Sherlock thought, stomach protested again. Those long limbs of his carried his body towards his friend and lowered down beside him, despite the moaning and the kicking of his mind.

"No no no go back to your side. Or I will change my mind and kick you into the pool." John murmured, winced while rotating his shoulder, still breathing harshly. But there's no cold rage in his voice.

_Interesting._

"You are not angry." Sherlock said, couldn't help but curious. John snorted laughter.

"Lucky for you tosser, set your date at midnight. If I spend one hour less in semtex, you would be in the water now. But then I thought about how a scene we were supposed to make…"

_That there wasn't a John Watson at the first place._

Sherlock shuddered at that.

John moved nearer, searching for his eyes, and frowned at what he saw, the doctor grabbed his wrist to check his pulse, then squeezed his knee briefly, "Hey, you all right? Where's your coat?"

"In the stall."

"Well. I'd offer you mine. If you don't mind the bomb."

They giggled, then silent again, watching reflectively the blue dot of the bomb which was still flashing.

"…So we are still out of milk, I suppose?"

"I'm telling Mycroft to bring a pint. He's going to collect the memory stick anyway."

"Don't forget those beans you promised."

"Hmm."

John nudged him with a knee.

"And you'd better call Lestrade now. They will deal with the bomb, and find back my jacket. That's my favourite jacket."

"Your only jacket. Wasn't been cleaned at all before you moved into Baker Street."

"Sod off."

Sherlock finished his text, began to dial Lestrade. He explained the fact then cut off curtly. His brain began to swirl. John's hand lay on his knee, warmth ravished in. They were sitting like this, until the sirens came near.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Waiting for the Yarders to show up felt like eternal. It took John a while to realize that his hand was still lying comfortably upon his friend's bony knee. Too comfortable for flatmates. But there was no protest from Sherlock, and John figured that it was too late to over work it anyway.

His mind was busy replaying what just happened here, trying to draw his own conclusion, like always, and felt that he was but a pawn upon the board, who had no idea what the next move of Moriarty's would be.

_But if anything, Sherlock wasn't another player either._ He thought. For he had seen the gaze his friend threw to him, checking his eyes, before he pointed the gun to the bomb, and constantly during the call.

(Too damnit constantly. Actually. John wanted to scream _look at your goal don't get distracted!_ Christ, and the madman stuck the gun into his own hair earlier, too. He really needs to give Sherlock a lesson or two about safe using.)

…But this warmed up his heart: Knowing that at least for Sherlock, they were in this together.

…It was clearly to John, that somehow, this brilliant crazy man gave up to be a criminal mastermind at the very beginning, rather to become a lone figure on the board.

(Ignoring the rules, without peers friends allies, but still just a figure, instead of a hand of some superior existence. No wonder they scolded him for this _waste_.)

Something shivered inside, john licked his lip. He was in a combat zone. He was used to violence and death and knew who or what had killed the most people. Mycroft sneered that the bravery of a soldier was just stupid. Moriarty manipulated people's destinies to fulfil his own script of dramas. Normal people were inferior, worthless until became their puppets.

John was rather amused at his own absurd imaging now: Mycroft and Moriarty having a tea together, discussing the scripts.

Sherlock was a quiet ball beside him, like an exhausted child after a big day.

_What has made you my friend?_ He suppressed the urge to ask.

…John watched the man as he sitting still after the old woman's line was cut off, yet heard Sherlock claimed that he was judged as heartless.

Clearly his friend didn't knew the answer himself yet.

The Yarders finally showed up, and it turned to be ugly. Very very ugly. Lestrade yelled at Sherlock for luring out a serial killer alone, again; Sherlock, despite his rather fatigue state, instinctively pushed back. (With his old words, mostly about the incompetence of the police to do their own job.) John was too tired to listen them bitching, zoned out until Lestrade banished Sherlock from his crime scenes at least a month; Sherlock snorted, swirled his coat theatrically, started to walk out, while Donovan was saying to Lestrade, not remotely lightly, that they _shouldn't let a psychopath had his way anymore_, especially not _after now, he found his criminal twin mind_.

It was then John was pushed off the brink and shout to the Yarders, "_This man could have changed his career ages__ ago without tip from you or Moriarty!_"

Silence. Everyone looked at him, not used to the change from a fellow doctor to a cold blood soldier.

_Idiot._ John thought, frustrated. _Sometimes they follow their imaginary logic and ignore the facts, other times they see the facts the criminal deliberately shoved in their face, despite how illogical they are. Only seeing things they want to._ John snorted. Is that how Sherlock usually felt?

_Idiots. _

_He choose not to. And it is not what he's capable makes him._

Ignored the murmurs behind of them, he walked out the bloody pool, hard and fast, miraculously alive. Sherlock had to take several running steps to follow up. _Ha. This is new. New and good. Well._ John snorted again, satisfied somehow.

"Idiot."

After a while silence, he offered. Sherlock hummed. John looked up and their gazes met, his friend looked shocked but amazed, even smiled a little.

"Dinner?"

Two a.m. Again. And his night was ruined as Moriarty's gunmen shoved him into a damned car.

"Starving." He grumbled.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

John was half feared, that his friend would run after Moriarty's footprints with heady abandon. An idea so distasteful since it would be like another game of Moriarty's again.

(Well. He was there the first night Sherlock heard of Moriarty, grinning happily and said he had no idea; He was with Sherlock as the man storming away with pumping energy, announcing that he was on fire. That was, before the death of that old woman and the triggered bomb, before everything turned to hell. He knew how much Sherlock enjoyed the tease and it's all wrong. So wrong.)

To his relief, as he woke up the next afternoon, Sherlock was still standing beside the table, with a plate in the hand and a mouthful cake. Sherlock managed to grumble out something like "tea" and "Mrs. Hudson" through food, so John sat down and enjoyed his cuppa.

The consulting detective was distracted, though. Eyes kept darting to the window. John sighed under his breath and brought it up.

"I know it's bothering you."

He knew Sherlock heard him, because the man suddenly found something outside so fascinating and turned completely towards the window.

"You know what I mean. Moriarty. He has some twisted new plan for you. Thought you will go after him, now, or roasting one of his snipers already."

"He's all over the world."

Sherlock murmured, more to the window.

"Sherlock?"

"Remember what that cabbie said? Bohemian paper. Businessman disappeared in Columbia. Genius artist in Argentina. Probably the Chinese gang too, since they needed help to enter London. That's what he meant, more than me, more than just a man."

"Are you saying that he's kind of a king of a criminal underworld? What if we-"

Sherlock's nose twitched, interrupted quickly, "Oh no he's more than that. He's their God, writes scripts out of their pathetic mind burst and helps them to perform. Don't you see, John? Moriarty isn't the one who initiatives the crimes. There are enough people who're tempted and he provokes them only, make their plans workable. Even if I hunt him down—all of his men down, the world won't be a better one, only a boring one with incapable criminals." His face twisted in disgust, "No. A life engaged in disassembling his kingdom will be a same disaster one just like working for Mycroft. I'm not the Rabbit, chasing after dead ends, always feels important. I'm not leaving Baker Street!"

He almost snapped out the last words, then looked over anxiously as if searching John's reaction.

_As if he's afraid to …disappoint me?_ John met his gaze with level eyes and a frown.

"This is what I am John."

It wasn't Sherlock's aggressive voice, as he was so desperate to be understood, as he meant _I am right why you are so stupid not to see it_. It was worse. It was Sherlock's quiet voice. Defensive and gave up trying already.

John's face softened.

"It's fine. Then. Really. You are not some superheroes. "

Sherlock hummed.

This should be how their only talk about this ended. But then something just bounced back into John's mind, the doctor's eyes narrowed and cleared his throat.

"Umm and…Sherlock?"

"What?"

"'Rabbit'?"

It took a moment to replay every word he said, and then Sherlock glared at John disbelievingly.

"Rabbit. The Rabbit who's just like Mycroft. Really John, you must have read Winnie the Pooh?"

The look on John's face told him that it was a colossal mistake to mention the Rabbit. He would never hear the end of it, just like the madding solar system.

And John knew that he knew it, too, the man began to giggle.

And, as Sherlock moaned and wondered if it could be worse, he heard that Mrs. Hudson answered the door, then the sound of the said man with his umbrella coming upstairs.

"Oh shut up John! It's totally your fault to bring him up!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Fragments of Closeness**

"Sherlock, stop doing this now."

"Doing what?"

"This. Whatever you are doing. Stop it."

"Eating? You like it when I eat. I haven't eaten two days."

John sighed, stopped typing. "No. Not eating. Stop breathing in my neck AND reading over my shoulder."

"Am I?" His friend replayed carelessly, then moved. For a horrible moment John thought he was going to crawled into his lap like a neglected four years old (_or a cat?_ John wondered.), but then Sherlock slipped on the stool nearby in an awkward position, back arched, eyes still gluing to the screen.

"Sherlock. I haven't done writing yet."

"Don't be bothered then. Keep…jabbing."

"Type. I'm typing. And I can't do it with you keep watching. Can't you…just wait like the others?"

"Too risky. Had to check."

"Check what?"

"Blog. Your blog."

Sherlock's chin was almost on his hand, wild curls covered a big part of his keyboard, "Good. Nothing about Rabbit yet."

This is absurd. Blunt urge to pet those curls surged into his chest, John slapped the man's shoulder instead, couldn't hold his laughter in voice,

"That data is private. Trust me. Lestrade's team will never find it out."

Sherlock snarled, "Yet everyone can read that 'he looked like a little, lost child.'"

_Because that's what you were._ John thought, left hand changed into a calming grab.

"Because they are all wrong about you. And they should know it."

Sherlock glared at him. "That I made mistakes too? I can hear that they're laughing at me right now."

"That you are a human being." John sighed, at Sherlock's impatiently snort," that you are…better."

"…What for? They are wrong about almost everything all the time, anyway." With that commit Sherlock stood up curtly, walking to the kitchen with his mug, "Write anything suits your opinion as long as the Rabbit's left alone."

John couldn't resisted to tease a little,

"Not only Rabbit Sherlock, your knowledge of children's' play and teddy bear are safe with me too."

The teacup was stumped down the sink with a blunt sound.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

It shouldn't be a competition. But it became one. John couldn't help to show off how fascinating (and frustrating, too, to be fair) his friend was, and couldn't help to be proud of the popularity of his blog. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't help to be bitter that ordinary people were fascinated by the wrong things, like always. John pointed out in the morgue that Sherlock was just a sore loser because no one read his website – It was a defensive statement, dear God. And he was bickering. But the genius took it very seriously, glared, pouted and LEFT, with John straightened up awkwardly and Lestrade threw him a look then ran after the detective resignedly.

John's stomach seized up, like the last time the Yarders used his information to laugh at his friend. _Worse than it._ This time, he was the one held the blade.

Sensitive child. Mycroft's words echoed inside of his head.

(The big brother kidnapped him weeks ago, overloaded him with years of documents of Sherlock's. _Beware, Doctor Watson._ Mycroft said. _He trusts you._ John understood the frustration and the threat in the subtext, curtly nodded back.)

Sherlock deleted the entry about tobacco ashes, almost shut his site down. John winced at the DELETED! on the dark background, but had no idea how to make this up to his over sized child friend. A hurt Sherlock was more unbearable than a bored, insufferable Sherlock.

_This is ridiculous. _John cursed in self loathe and despair. _Please let this bloody business go._

And God listened to his prayer.

Sherlock went out alone the next day, came back at one o'clock in the morning, shivering under the effect of fever and migration. John scowled, wrapped him into duvet sheet and blanket. Sherlock didn't protest much.

The season of flu came.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

"Uncurl. And drink this up."

Hand shook his left shoulder gently. Sherlock tried half-heartedly to shove it off.

"Right. Fight me. Child. Scream at me later if your throat less raw. But first of all, drink up this."

John. Gentle. Solid. Slightly annoyed John. Sherlock whimpered as an arm slid under his armpit, lift him up effortlessly. Pills were shoved into his mouth, then a glass of water nudged firmly at his lip.

He drank to swallow them down. John only moved the glass away after he drank almost all of the water.

"'m dying John."

Words cracked out of his throat, which was sore. And his useless body was shivering pathetically all over. His eyes throbbing, his head felt like there were several screws dig inside. Sherlock sank his fingers into the jumper before him.

"It's only chill. Half an hour later you will be on fire again."

He was eased down and tucked in. But John didn't go, let his jumper been grabbed. Fingers moved away the damp curls on his temple, then slid down, stroking his side in a soothing move. Sherlock whined.

"You were not this nice the last time."

John snorted faintly, "Well. You were shooting the bloody wall the last time – and your own dressing gown – not be tortured by a nasty flu and vomited all day."

"A common flu." Sherlock sniffed in disgust. John definitely grinned at him now.

"Don't sulk."

"I do not do it."

"Yes you do. After you got enough strength back for it." The stroking continued, "See the bright side, you are not bored anymore."

"Only because my brain's choked and dying."

"No it isn't. It just needs some sleep to clear up. Then you'll come back again and frustrate everyone with your superior knowledge on science of deduction."

The massage alone his side was calming, holding him firmly against chill in his spine. "As if anyone cares to read." He murmured into the jumper, still sore, but his body stretched slowly out.

"I do. I've read them all. How else can I know why our kitchen was scarified?" John's voice was nearer, "I'm not going anywhere. Now sleep."

_Impossible._ His brain groaned under the anguish. But his body was comfortable, it obeyed the order.

The doctor sighed as his friend slumbered, more like passed out. He was familiar with the madman's body language now, knowing that every time Sherlock curled up tightly, it signalled "please get closer", instead of a "piss off" like he originally thought. But again, the genius was like a miserable child who hadn't an idea to ask properly.

Still soothing the man's bony back, John wished that he could know earlier.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

To his dismay, Sherlock didn't repost the article about tobacco ashes, regardless of John's encouragement.

John's counter broke at 1895. He was annoyed. A little. Somehow it made him feel that they were even now. Despite the broken counter, John's reader group grew steadily.

Which was good. For except the source from Lestrade (and British government), they had a stream of private clients now.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Mrs. Hudson gave her hostage back, right after the midday John posted his The Great Game, the same evening as Sherlock entered the flat, his friend skull was sitting on the mantelpiece, grinning at him broadly.

Sherlock overheard the reason Mrs. Hudson mumbled to John, "Oh Doctor Watson, so that bomber was actually trying to get Sherlock? Terrible man…Yes it is me put the skull back on your fireplace. Poor dear. His life is dangerous enough, how can I take his old friend away? It was long ago, a few years back…"

Sherlock swirled, heading upstairs directly.

Right. Everyone's waiting for John's blog.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

John was very fond of the skull, at the first sight. Sherlock watched his friends went along with each other, with an exploding sensation in his chest.

Once, as he woke up on the sofa, John was standing across the flat, holding the skull in his surgery hands, tidying it, with a gentle grin on which made him much younger.

(Bitter but innocent. Sharp edged. Before Afghanistan, back to uni probably.)

"Morning Yorick." John greeted the skull cheerfully. Sherlock couldn't resist correcting.

"Victor."

"Sorry, what?"

"Victor. The skull's called Victor." Sherlock jack-knifed from the sofa, walking his way to the bathroom. John's face showed that Mycroft at least mentioned the name in his file. "A good morning to you too, John."

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Then there was the client fainted in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. There was Buckingham palace. There was Irene Adler the dominatrix finally across their road. An acceptable counterpart his friend's ever met. A gender-bent Sherlock in another area, forced her way of understanding upon everyone; (Sexual way. That was. Well. John couldn't protest much. Sherlock was the one forced everyone to understand his observe-deduce way, in the first place.) She was teasing, flirting, harassing. And his friend stammered, been drugged, crawled across the bedroom's floor then settled firmly with his violin swirling through the flat here and there.

Months. The orgasmic sigh ghosting in their place, the Woman's mark of their encounter. Sherlock's verse was uncharacteristic silence. Acknowledged it then ignored it.

John's heart was torn with expectation, sorrow and anger, watching his friend being exposed into a twisted situation and forced to develop his sentimental part.

Three more girlfriends came and went. John didn't pay much attention to them.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

There was the ruined Christmas, the same frustrated New Year. There was the Woman standing in front of him, bloody alive. "What do you normally say!" John wasn't angry. He was _seeing red_. _How dare this woman not to see how special she is, how dare she not to understand what a precious being she's dealing with and the damage she's done!_

He wasn't jealous. Why everybody keeps telling him that they are secret a pair without his own notice?

Of course Sherlock needed to know where he's gone, since obviously that car wasn't sent by Mycroft.

There was the orgasmic sigh which exposed him.

Then, there was a lone coat swirl across the corner, disappeared.

And an Irene Adler watching him with an odd bitterness, like desperately yearning but already accepted the boundaries and her defeat.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

As he stormed into Mycroft's office, John was blaming himself. This, was the result he ever set his friend into another person's hand, and it went very, very wrong.

_- Why must she carry on her damnit plan? Isn't a future life together with Sherlock happily enough?_

_God forbid. How smitten this sounded._

John cursed furiously. He walked out, placed her in _his place_ then bloody walked out. Even pictured one or two scenes with him and little Hamish, playing and laughing.

_Damnit his middle name._

…So he wasn't there. As his friend called for him, as his friend was used then shoved away ruthlessly, he wasn't there.

John's jaw clenched.

…Then almost running into Sherlock, as the man walked out the room like a cyclone, after shot back his last word.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Mycroft showed him the footage of what happened in his office, afterwards, which he watched over and over. John's throat seized up every time as he saw Sherlock _Oh_-ed finally.

At last, the world's only consulting detective made the sense out of all the pieces, solve the puzzle using the only way he knew, the only way he was.

Months, John flinched at the word "the Woman", inside of his heart.

- How could his friend allow himself to be even a little sentimental after this?

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Totally unsurprisingly, Sherlock determined to switch back to his normal routine the day that after – cut off the plot. Like every time he did, after got the last word. Within an hour, their last-night-new-purchased-chemistry-set were spread all over the kitchen table, and a drown-inside-his-experiments-Sherlock perching in front of his microscope, deliberately blocked the way, with a looking on which said, "I'm busy. Fetch the phone for me. Jacket."

John had to cross half the island to get his teabag, then crossed back for the kettle.

He smiled ruefully at the first time, sighed at the second, rolled his eyes at the third. At his forth time repeating this and the complaint fell into deaf ears, John chew his mouth then picked up the stool, moved it out of his way, stomped it down loudly, with a Sherlock still on it.

His friend's face froze one second, then fell immediately.

John captured that look in the corner of his eye, focusing on his kettle, ignored him.

Later, as a steaming cuppa planted beside his friend's hand, he heard a low and vague "Thank you John." Cold fingertips brushed against his.

The feeling lingered still, as John sat into his armchair, finally enjoying a peaceful cup of tea with a medical journal month old.

Very normal indeed.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

The conference was long and boring. A necessary mundanity John could only bear, knowing that a week later he would be in London again, after his insane detective. That was the way his world balanced.

Still. The conference was tedious to tears.

…And the journey home was wearying, so wearying that all he wanted was to have a shower then collapse.

John stopped at the downstairs, though, hearing his friend's voice, quick and vague, as if he was in a conversation, which Sherlock was clearly caught into, didn't notice that he was back.

"…irrelevant. It's the thing which should be done. And I refuse to…"

"Your suggestion is insane. Who's the child in this conversation now?"

"…am quiet satisfied right now. I'm the one write down the point after…"

"Stop. Or I will hide you inside the pirate hat and you won't be held up and cleaned by John anymore!"

The good old Victor, then. John giggled as he stepped in. The skull (still lying on Sherlock's fingertips) flashed a grin at him. Sherlock's face blanked at the awkwardness.

The warmth of home rushed in John's blood vessels. He was tempted to hug his embarrassed friend and to tease his pirate's hat, John stepped nearby and patted the skull instead, "Evening Victor. Nice to be home again. Finally." He said, then retired to his own bedroom.

(So he didn't see that Victor smirked brighter. Sherlock stretched out the arm and murmured, "Well. Me too. Nice to be home again.")

He was going to bring up his friend's row with the skull later, but didn't want to see Sherlock to be more uncomfortable. Whatever they were arguing, John forgot it completely the next morning.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

There was the meeting with Mycroft in Speedy. And his hard task. There was Sherlock, refusing eye contact, reaching out for an empty phone. And the last message from the Woman hit his stomach badly.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

A week later, while tidying up the flat, John crossed the Woman's camera phone again. Black cover, golden crown, lying quietly in the top drawer on their table.

John swallowed down his ridiculous relief.

- Part of him was afraid that the phone had found its home permanently in Sherlock's trousers' pocket, after it failed to show up as a companion of the skull.

His brilliant friend shouldn't waste his delicate heart pinning after someone didn't cherish him, someone took shamelessly advantage, planed to hurt him at the first place.

That's why he was nervous.

John told himself firmly, at least.

It was only after this rush of relief, John realized that he was happy, that Sherlock decided to carry this part with him deeply inside, instead of ignore it.

Or worse, delete it completely.

John was proud of him, actually.

So he grinned as his own mobile buzzed, apparently Sherlock emerged from the morgue at last and decided that he was hungry.

_- Dinner? SH _ it read.

_- Meet you at Angelo's._ JW

The signature was ridiculous. John added it anyway, just to humour Sherlock.

The room was left half cleaned.

Surely it could wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mycroft's Library **

They were running, cutting through the darkest streets of London. The case was brought by Mycroft two days ago, to investigate the secret agent of his who disappeared under his own nose, and turned out to be a chase after an old crazy forensic professor with a grand plan to recreate a history book of famous crime scenes in London once again. The man was smart and fast, considering his age, but nothing compared to the world's only consulting detective's sharp mind and long legs. As John caught them up three minutes later, (hopped, one ankle twisted slightly in the ruin of a house on fire) the serial killer was already unconscious and cuffed, with an overexcited Sherlock straddled on him, pupils dilated, breathing out his_ Oh-This-Is-Brilliant-Thank-You-Professor-Well-Done_, John laughed and cursed, stepped on to haul up his friend, intended to check the bleeding cheekbone, but Sherlock announced something about Christmas, kissed John's cheek loudly, then hopped away.

John froze a second, decided to let it slip.

"Sherlock! Your bloody cheekbone's still bleeding! Come back!"

His friend whirled back, unsteadily; John seized the sleeve of his great coat to keep him at place.

"Just a graze." Sherlock turned his head away. John cursed.

"Christ. This must be very inconvenient. How many times you've been hurt on here!"

"Guess the professor's knuckles are still suffering too. We're even." Sherlock pouted, but then grinned brightly back. John laughed.

"Fine. Let's clean up your murder weapon before Mycroft comes, cheeky tosser."

Sherlock frowned, then _blinked_.

"Hey. I know you hate to call him, but the man gave this case to you, he deserved to…"

The last words died on his lips. For he was pushed away not too gently and his friend cursed, rushing over the corner. John hopped after him, but there was nothing, except shadow. "Sherlock? What the hell -"

"…No."

His friend turned around, looked directly through him, an arm stretched out.

"No! Not you! No."

"Sherlock!"

John gripped him fest, had to wrestle a bit since Sherlock struggled like a possessed, swaying his head violently. As he finally seized the man's face into his hands, John saw a pair of blank eyes, pupils still dilated. And then, all the strength in those long limbs' suddenly gone. Sherlock limped in his arms.

He was still gasping something, though, mouth opened. "Smoke" Was the only word John could make out, before his friend finally blacked out, like a doll whose threads was cut off.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

The world was swaying, in a disturbing semi-dark colour. Orange flecks all over above his sight. And _the_ face. The one shouldn't be here, wearing a sly smile, fingers swirled nimbly, grey-white tokens letters sliding under them.

The month shaped soundlessly, "Always mine."

No.

He screamed.

No. Not you. Not here.

"Honey, wait for your scene coming."

No.

John. Where's John?

"Patient, my dear."

No!

Suddenly he could see the real world now (Still swaying. Still just orange flecks.). Talks. Moving of people. All echoed together. Nauseating. Some annoying shallow sounds stopped him to hear clearly. His own breath.

"…said 'smoke' before he…"

"…was called 'Devil's Foot'…"

"…lasted too long…"

Too much noises. Too many colours.

He moaned. Had nothing to hold on.

Someone's fingers brushed over his cheek. "Sherlock. Shhh. It's okay. Stay with me."

John.

His soldier doctor.

He knew those were hallucinations. _This is true. John's here._ John needed to acknowledge every movement of his recently, as if wanted to tuck him in his pocket. Of course John's here.

Sherlock sighed, let the darkness consume him.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

_Not our flat_.

The notice alarmed him out off the darkness. His mind was clearer, limbs…still numb, but he could feel them now.

Different mattress. Sheet too silky. The air of midnight, an hour after the chase. The smell in the air…His jail in Mycroft's house. Hell.

"John? John!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open, struggled to sit up, only to fall back again, panting, still writhing away two doctors who was checking on him, until a pair of arms held him firmly still.

(Not holding him down, through.)

"None of this nonsense Sherlock. I'm here."

John.

Sherlock blinked. Yeah. John was sitting beside him. Clothes torn, covered with dirt. Battered, but fine.

He relaxed, sank back to the pillow. A whine slipped out. "Mycroft's -"

"I know. I'm sorry. But you were drugged by the smoke in that house earlier, can you –"

"Devil's foot, the root shaped like a foot, half human, half goat like; the fanciful name was given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa …" words floated out weak but fluently, John squeezed him to interrupt.

"Okay okay of course you've worked this out. Show- off. We needed to check you and Mycroft's house's nearby. And I know how much you hate the hospital."

_Here isn't so much better either!_

He bit the lip to stop a whimper. John looked guilty, as if could hear everything screaming out from his mind.

"I know. _I knew._ Listen. You need to let them finish the check, Sherlock. You are exhausted, haven't slept or eaten two days and were drugged. Christ. It is late. You are tired. I am tired. And my ankle's hurting like a bitch. Can we just stay here one night? Just this one, for me?"

…_Is John angry?_

He couldn't tell. His view wasn't so clear now, the world around shattered again. But John was doubtlessly exhausted. And worried. He could observe that much. Like every time during a case John was too tired or too hungry, he could tell.

He fought out a small nod. Then closed his eyes again to against the nausea.

"Not here."

His breath was too shallow. He had to struggle the words out, "Not this room. Please." He begged.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

The third time he woke up slowly, Sherlock knew instantly that he was safe, judging from the smell of old tomes and old woods, crack sound and warmth only belong a hearth…and familiar body warmth beside him.

Sherlock woke up in a nest made from a sofa, heavy and steady like this room's every old bookshelf. The library of Mycroft's house.

John was sitting in the armchair, right beside his head, with a book in his lap. Seeing he's awake, the doctor pressed a glass of water to him.

"Drink up."

Sherlock pushed himself up a little, swallowed down the water, head lolled back again in the pillow, pale grey-blue met up John's questioning eyes.

"Your ankle's better?" he cracked out, John's eyes brightened, "Yes. Unless someone jumps up right now, and demands that we race back to Baker Street, my ankle's fine. Are you all right?"

"Me? Yes. Of course. This room is fine. I liked this room actually."

"Git. Not what I was talking about. Next time, think of this, before you jumped into a house on fire."

_Oh. That's it. The professor's house. The drug in the smoke. The phantom of Moriarty who's doubtless writing script for him right now…_

"Sherlock?"

John. Looked worried, again.

Sherlock shifted away.

"Already deleted." He grumbled stubbornly.

John rolled his eyes.

"Four years old again, are we?" John sighed. "Well. Guess this will cheer you up: Mycroft is banished from this room. You needn't to see him again before we leave."

"Of course he won't stay. You occupied his favourite chair already."

Sherlock kept saying blurredly to a bookshelf, as indifferently as he could manage. John laughed a little, looked around the room too.

"So. You are okay in this library?"

"Familiar. Here's familiar to me. It's not an imitation. Mycroft literally moved our old library from home to there, every single brick. After…"

His voice broke away. _After Mummy's gone. _And the illusion of a home died completely, even if it was withering since long ago.

He startled at the hand on his arm. "Hey." John squeezed him briefly, shoved the shadow away.

Sherlock cleaned his throat.

"Mycroft moved out Father's collection as he was fourteen. I was there, helped him to move in his, book by book, really interesting things. It's one of the rooms in my first mind palace. Well, as I say palace…"

"Your what?" John smiled rather bewilderedly. Sherlock explained with an impatient wave of hand, "Mind palace. My mind palace. Like building up a room in your mind with things places you're familiar, deposit every organized data into those places, and you will never lose them, only need to find your way back. Really John. As a trained doctor you should have your own mind palace too. Help to remember information which _really_ matters, and to speed up the searching tempo. Everyone should have their mind palace instead of a pile of jungle in their placid head!"

John's mouth opened, then shut up again, changed into a wry grin,

"It's amazing Sherlock. Only the way you saying it makes everyone want t to punch you."

"You are not everyone John."

"Everyone else, then. Me including, given a chance." He was half bickering again, thought of their rather enjoyable childish fight before, but Sherlock snorted offendedly, turned over to face the back of the sofa, and mumbled something like "idiot" under breath.

John knocked his back lightly, no response. He changed that to stroke Sherlock's side, apologizing. Sherlock purred, still facing away, curled into a tight ball, looked small and quiet.

John was suddenly sad, as if seeing the little Sherlock stood there, awkwardly but proud, too proud, knowing so many marvellous things but had no one's willing to listen. Never did he understand why the others would not see what he could see.

Speaking of little Sherlock…

Strange memories fell together, showed him a rather absurd picture: Little Sherlock on the ladder, helping his brother to rearrange the books; Little Sherlock with Mummy, playing, _round and round the garden_…or was he with Mycroft?

Amused helplessly, John began to giggle, knowing that he shouldn't, not when his friend curled up a miserable ball.

(But the firelight of the hearth was bright. The library was closing up in the midnight, warm and intimate. He was right beside Sherlock, comfortable and contented. So he just couldn't hold back his amusement anymore.)

Sherlock finally turned over, with an expression saying that he hadn't decided to look puzzled or offended yet. John's giggle went louder.

"This is ridiculous, John."

_Yeah. Says the man who is pouting._ John thought, suppressed his giggle very hardly. "Sorry. Sorry. Just. Imagining that you played round and round the garden with My…"

"John!"

John gestured surrender, didn't want to upset his friend further, at least Sherlock was facing him now, glaring, though, with a pair of pale eyes like daggers, looked more uncomfortable than frantic however.

"How about…let's just talk about Mycroft's collection?" John grinned, changed the subject, pointing to The House at the Pooh Corner in his lap. Sherlock's mouth finally quirked, a pale arm poked out of the sheet, soothing the cover of the book with elegant fingertips.

"First edition. Mycroft always has a soft spot for first editions, loves them almost as much as he does to cakes."

"I used to have a copy once. A gift from our mother. She read it to Harry as she was small." John looked at the nimble fingers lingering on the cover, trailed into memories, his mature, bitter, it's-all-fine-now past, "she was too busy as it was my turn, so she just laid it down on my pillow…" he smiled melancholy, "I used to enjoy it, even as a teenager. Until Harry returned home drunk and pissed one night, threw it out of window in the rain."

She brought him a well sold Thriller as an apology, _which_ threw John off the edge. He remembered shouted at it in disgust, while Harry smirking disbelievingly at him, and mocking him in an exaggerated voice.

John shook the picture away, flickered through pages, "But you liked them too," he murmured, "enough not to delete it."

"Many famous tales are proved to be very useful for cases, especially for criminals who like to quote while setting up their own puzzles."

Sherlock said flatly, but then grinned like a cat, "Also, it is useful to show Mycroft what do I think of him."

"How?"

"An easy trick. Some pages were well touched than the others, a transparent way to tell him which part I enjoyed most, which is – " he turned the book to the end of chapter seven, "a very small and sorry Rabbit."

They laughed together. John giggled again and Sherlock chuckled, "Why, you evil man, why the Rabbit?"

"Why not?" Sherlock grinned innocently, "who else needs to feel that he's very important? Who else likes to set everything up?"

"And who else has a brain, and 'that's why he doesn't understand anything'?"

They laughed again. Sherlock looked really happy, eyes brighter than the firelight. The other stories with Rabbit in the book looked as well read as this place, Sherlock must be rather fond of Rabbit. But John decided that he loved this happy Sherlock now, and kept his observation with himself.

His friend's attention shifted away already anyway, to the tome on the arm of the chair. A small, recognized _Oh_ slipped out of the pale lips. Then the pale fingers picked it up, battering nimbly through the pages. It was a centuries years old medical script, already lying there before they moved in, with delicately decorated pages and knowledge completely out of date. Useless but so obviously attractive due to the age and the beauty. Tiny, innocent, harmless sentimental. But sentimental anyway.

It was then John realized that not only Mycroft, Sherlock, too, showed unusual respect to the very old things. He bet the madman could run through the British Museum like he did in London's streets. How useful could a million years old bone to science of deduction? But they fascinated Sherlock nevertheless and remained in his hard drives.

"You are free to have some hobbies, you know? Like Lestrade and his beloved Astronomy."

"I consider myself loyal to my work."

John shook his head bemusedly, "Come on. This book is useless. You just like it."

Sherlock ignored that, burying his nose into the book, breathing deeply.

…Solar system was some barely useless facts. But these, were their shared obsession.

John looked at his friend's oddly happy profile intensely, wondering whether Mycroft put the book on here deliberately, or what would the Yarders say, if they could ever see this calm, pliant, adorable Sherlock curling beside him, so near, so alive, that he could count the man's heart beats.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Both of them let go a long breath as they stepped into 221B the next morning. Like people did, when they went through a nightmarish work _and_ a dreamlike holiday. They hang their coats behind the door, then, Sherlock brought out something thick and big out of his great coat, under John's nose.

"…The book. Sherlock. That's the book on Mycroft's chair." John's eyes widened, rather impressed that how many things could be hidden inside that coat. Really, among all the things his friend's pick-pocketed, a book was the most harmless of all.

"It was mine anyway." Sherlock tucked the book into the shelf, deliberately not looking at him, "Before. Thought it was lost."

It was the kind of awkward which indicated "the drug epoch", as usual, John didn't pursue, just patted the small of Sherlock's back, then headed to the bathroom.

Sherlock shut his eyes, listening to the sound of water hitting the ground of the bathroom.

Home now. He's home now.

No smoke. No orange flecks. No phantom chanting.

Just John. The brave soldier-doctor of his. And his bright eyes, quirking.

A small noise slipped out of his throat.

Sherlock clutched his jaw, a mimic he picked up from John but rarely used.

_- I don't want to let go this._

To the recycle bin. He ordered the brain.


	4. Chapter 4

**n. v. Tear**

"Cold."

"Well. Let's say it's a huge improvement are we? At least you are not bored anymore."

John peeled off Sherlock's suit as quickly as possible, the fine fabric was certainly ruined by water. All his friend did was shiver all over, and bitch with him. Clearly his mouth wasn't frozen up.

"You are a doctor John. Be careful to your patient."

"People who jumped into the bloodyThamesshouldn't be my patient." John hissed back, "Doctor Thompson takes care of them usually, you suicidal git. Or it's Molly's job. Seriously, next time, use your gigantic brain first."

"I did think. I always think."

"I see. Because you did throw your coat on me first. Did I look like a door to you?"

John ruffled him with a large, fluffy towel, then tucked him under the duvet, the sheet, and two blankets. He laid his hand on Sherlock's cheek, the man's skin was still cold like dead. The doctor cursed loudly.

"It's the most important evident." Sherlock still managed words out of his gritting teeth. "Damnit the evident!" John snapped, then quickly resumed his soothing tone, "Hold on. Mrs. Hudson's making some soup now. And I'm going to draw you a bath."

"Fussing." Sherlock's head lolled back, curls still wet, damping the pillow. One arm grasped John's sleeve with surprising strength, "Don't go. Stay."

"Sherlock. You need a bath. I'll be back soon. Won't be a second."

But the grasp was tight, desperately tight. "Don't." Sherlock murmured blurrily, "too much water today."

John sighed. "Got it. No bath then. How about a water bottle? You are still freezing."

"No need. You are warm."

_Sixty percent water, temperature 36.8 degree, 5 feet 6.5 inches._ John rolled his eyes at the thought, distressed quickly to his boxers, peeled the duvet open then settled in, facing his pitiful friend, threw an arm around him.

Icy cold pierced rapidly all over his body. John shuddered. Sherlock let out a small noise, shifting, wild curls tucked under his chin now. John laid a hand on the man's temple. Sherlock's skin began to burn.

"Shhh. It's fine. My honour to be your water bottle. Now rest."

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Sherlock was alone in the flat that afternoon, nestled in the sofa. John surrounded him with cushions, laptops, phone, newspapers, tomes, notebooks, pens, tea cups, remote control of DVD player, before went out to Tesco.

His fever was broken in the daybreak, vomit stopped an hour ago. Still dizzy, his mind clouded with dust. Limbs were weak. Breath too shallow. He tried his Blackberry first, the screen hurt his eyes; changed to read, tome was too heavy to lift up, and the lines wore him out quickly.

A filled recycle bin throbbed in the darkest corner of his hard drive.

Sherlock laid the book down in his lap, shut his eyes briefly, head lolled into cushions.

The next thing he knew was the pale golden sunlight threw into the window, dark shadow covered him and the sofa like a blanket.

His big brother and the umbrella stood in front of him.

Sherlock tiled back his head. How long has he slept?_ Where's John?_

"Dr. Watson is busying having another row with the chip-pin-machine now. Would be back within minutes."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the silky voice. "No case now. Mycroft." He husked.

"Case? No. Nothing to entertain you this time brother dear. I'm rather…busy recently."

The delay in the voice alarmed him, Sherlock sat up a little, Mycroft in front of him was still his perfect arrogant self, eyes flashing with Anger. Droved up the wall so soon? Lines around the corners of Mycroft's eyes and mouths were rigid, too. Hand gripping the umbrella too tightly, as if his brother wanted to fold his hands.

_What's happening? Worse than war?_

"Mycroft? Why are you here?"

"Why, exactly, brother dear? How many times somebody else needs to pack you up, after you threw away your life so carelessly? How long do you need, to finally stop those ridiculous nonsense and to decide a proper way of life? Have you ever thought how disappointed Mummy would be, to see you jumped into theThamesfor nothing? "

Sherlock's mouth quirked, eyes narrowed in a mocking rage.

"Oh please. It's not _me_ who left home and abandoned her. It wasn't _me_ she called whenever someone approached!"

Mycroft's eyes squeezed.

"You think you could live like this forever, Sherlock? You think that you are settled, that you've occupied him now, aren't you little brother? A soldier and a doctor. Perfect combination. Brave and loyal and has a big heart to put up with a disaster like you, following after you into every rats' alleys. You're even thinking that you could care him back, don't you?" Mycroft's hand clutched around the umbrella with a death grip, a shaky breath slipped out despite his own will, "but you'll find out that you are wrong after all. Both of you. You can't stop driving everyone away and he will find out eventually that a heart is too much to ask for a puppet like you. Which of you, do you think, will decide that it is too much and had to leave? How many damages will be done, until you finally admit that this is what you are?"

Mycroft stopped, before it was too late, before his voice completely betrayed himself. He began to feeling ill. His little brother before him was pale. Paler than a man who just went through a nasty pneumonia. But the storm in those icy eyes was gone.

Sherlock looked rather calm. Even sad. This shocked him enough out of the heat of anger.

"Don't confuse yourself with John, Mycroft." Sherlock said.

"…There won't be too much 'forever' left for me, Mycroft." His little brother said.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

It was an accident, regardless of what John thought. At last, it was a car which caught Sherlock, not a criminal.

The recycle bin (a deep pit now)was proved to be disturbingly illogical, throbbing, humming, begging for his attention from time to time. Mostly Sherlock ignored it successfully.

But there was that one time he couldn't. So he crossed the street to purchase some nicotine patches, while John staying on the other side, refused to help him to buy something would kill him in the future.

Their suspicion chose this moment showed up. Sherlock rushed out to follow, and was hit by a car couldn't brake in time.

It was a pure accident, regardless of what John thought.

But again, too many accidents for him these days.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

"Barely a graze."

Sherlock murmured as John cared for those blue flecks on his side. He winced at the strength the doctor used. John was pissed. Doubtlessly. The doctor, who was listing his "stupid accidents" stubbornly, now raised his voice.

"— jumping into the bloodyThames, running into a car – because you had to cross the street for some nicotine patches —"

"Really John. What's that with the patches. You offered to lend me money for cigarette before. " Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "even policeman like Lestrade needs patches during cases —"

"And the said policeman's wife's cheating on him with a PE teacher!"

Sherlock's eyes widened at the snap. John shook his head, "Sherlock. Christ. _Sherlock_. I know you are married to your work. You'd do anything for it. You quitted cocaine for it before, am I right? But why this nonsense? Throwing away your life like you've got no tomorrow? Can you imagine that I put my last entry on the blog, saying that my brilliant friend, the world's only consulting detective has been killed by an _ordinary_ car, or by cancer, like so many boring people do everyday? Can't you just – I don't know – take your life more seriously, if only to work longer?"

Ah. Here are we. Again.

_More seriously._ _Seriously_.

_Wasting your life on solving puzzles for the police. Sherlock. When would you behave like a grown-up?_ Mycroft–in-memory lined his lips.

_Be patient, honey. Your scene's coming soon._

The phantom chanted in his recycle bin. And it wasn't dead end or drug reduced illusion anymore. It was decision other people made, and predicable future which he avoided fiercely to loathe, let alone to act against.

It was like the day Mycroft went to uni, and he was left behind forever - memories he tried so hard to delete, then had to delete the fact that he knew he couldn't instead.

"Sherlock?"

John's lash-out stopped now, head tiled, watching him carefully.

Sherlock's lips quivered.

"I don't want to leave." He hissed. It was the game both his brother and Moriarty enjoyed. The game he'd never, ever join in since the first step of it is to tear up his world.

It was exile, no matter win or lose.

"Sherlock? You all right?" John sounded alarmed, seized his wrist. "\what's wrong? No one's going to leave. We just have a row. We have fights before. Nobody's going to leave."

John sounded so worried. John. Sherlock swallowed. His world inLondon, in 221B. How did they manage to build up a life together like this?

"Christ. Sherlock? Can you hear me? What's wrong? Would you mind to tell me what's going on in your head?"

John looked horrified, one hand on his shoulder, palm down, another reached out to hold his face. Warmth piercing behind Sherlock's eyes, aguishly, he blinked.

"I like my violin."

Said he. Finally. John looked bewildered, as if wanted to shake him, to shake the answer out, but was afraid to hurt him by even a light move.

Instead the doctor quietly said, "It's okay with me. I like you to play it too, really. Any time. Helps me to sleep."

I knew. Nightmares about a life which would never come back again. Sherlock thought, with a bitter smile.

"And my chemistry set, my skull sitting on the mantelpiece. My dressing gowns. My periodic table, my phone, my cushions, my sofa, my chair, my books, my ness mug."

_- It is horrible. Since when he relayed on so many things to keep living?_

"They are yours. All yours. Well I steal the Union Jack a lot. But you use my things freely too. I know I said before to throw out your experiments -"

"— _And me right after them_." Sherlock quoted accusingly, John laughed, threw an arm around him now, "It's only a threat. You know it, don't you?"

John's another hand began to brush his hair.

Sherlock continued through shattered breath.

"I have Molly who let me use the morgue of Bart's, and the lab there; I have Lestrade call when they're baffled by the cases; and I have Mrs. Hudson stay near and take care of our flat."

John said nothing, the hand moved to stroke his back.

Sherlock's face crumpled,

"And you, to go to criminal scenes with you, to watch crap telly with you, or just to eat. – I had to have all those around! This is my life! Mine! I'm _not_ going to leave!"

John was shocked to see his friend well up. Horrified, he rearranged their limbs so that he got to hold Sherlock as much as he could, as the man was rocking unconsciously back and forth, obviously overloaded by too many sentimental acknowledgements of himself. What the hell is this broken down? John didn't understand, only got it that it wasn't just about a stupid car or nicotine patches anymore.

But Sherlock was obviously not right, and was watching him now, like they both know what was happening here.

His friend never looked so vulnerable. John's heart hurt for that.

"Sherlock, you are with me now?" he grabbed those cold hands, reassuringly, "Hey, Sherlock? No one's leaving. They are – hell we are all here for you. And we are still having a long time forward. So stop this. Stop dying on me, give some thought to your own boring breath, okay? For me?"

_Not long enough, John._ He wanted to say. But John's strength ravished into his arms, spread to his chest, and something there became so heavy and welled up. Sherlock gasped at the strange sensation. John in front of him looked obviously frustrated, possibly despaired. A state he detested to see him in.

Sherlock stretched out his legs, the forgotten first aid case was kicked away.

"Yes."

He coked out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Epilogue**

Next morning, as John sat on his chair with a cuppa, reading a paper, a box of nicotine patches and packs of cigarettes fell into his lap.

He raised eyebrows to Sherlock, the man trusted his hands into the dressing gown, fidgeted, kept his eyes momentarily to the floor, then finally raised up his head.

John could see those pale lips thinned in determination.

"I'm quitting."

John tiled his head, sniggered, then reaching out a hand, "your secret supply, too."

Sherlock huffed exasperatedly, disappeared into the fireplace, a second later a pack was hurled into John's lap, joined the others.

John's shoulder slumped in relief.

What ever it was.

The hell's gone.

-o0oo0oo0oo0o-

Except it isn't. Really isn't. Trust Sherlock to be a tremendous pain in the arse while quitting. Of course. A pair of days the man barely slept, despite the fact that it was his post-case-hibernation phase; Then there were days he passed out, day and night, barely found enough strength to go to the loo. John moved Sherlock upstairs in his bed, because he had to wake up several times during night to clean Sherlock up, since the man was shivering, scratching deeply at his chest as if wanting to rip open his own ribs.

After he could stand up again, Sherlock indulged his new found energy into tearing apart their flat, constantly, like a petulant child throwing everything everywhere. John gave up to tidy the place eventually, seeing no point in it.

Only the violin and the skull were safe, as always. Victor was John's loyal ally now, together with Mrs. Hudson help to hide Sherlock's once- secret-supply.

(John hadn't flushed it, merely moved it out of sight. No one could quit for someone else, after all. Sherlock hat to learn to control his own need.)

But some nights, as he shut up the telly prepared to go to bed, Sherlock disappeared into his own bedroom, (The man moved back again, after his strength came back.) came out one second later with his duvet in arms, still didn't know how to ask, just stood there, gesturing with flickering gaze that he want to follow, too.

John tiled the head bewildered, "Why the duvet?"

"Yours is too short." Sherlock's eyes darted away.

John shook his head, laid one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, shepherded him to keep on going upstairs.

— He gave up defining their relationship long ago. Sherlock didn't seem to be bothered either. Even though their limbs entwined up during sleeping.

John always slept better with Sherlock on the bed, though.

Amused and annoyed as he was, John was moved by seeing how much Sherlock wanted_ this_.

Whatever it was, they were together in it now.

And John would never let this go, even if he regretted frequently.

Even after the madman charged into the door, covering with pig's blood, shirt trousers completely ruined; even after Sherlock had to carry his killing weapon everywhere, throwing insults at everything everyone just so he could; even after the oversized baby begged him to give him a case — By what, wave a wand? What is John, seriously, Merlin?

Deeply touched by the confidence the idiotic genius put into him, John still sighed and silently begged: Please. Please God let an interesting client come. No this fairy rabbit one doesn't count.

It was hellish. Hot, grand, breathtaking, demanding every space to explode in like a supernova, much brighter much better than Afghanistan's burning sun.

He was never bored. Never lonely. Not anymore.

Not after they were in this together.

END


End file.
